Sunset
by Tom's Mum
Summary: Richard review his life through photos.


_Really not sure about posting this – I wrote it just for myself to show how R&amp;C's life might have turned out were it not for a certain ice-pick. It is very autumnal in tone, with little dialogue and rather sentimental. But now that series 3 is finally over and it is clear that Camille is destined for Humphrey I thought I might as well share it. _

* * *

Richard Poole leaned back in his favourite wicker chair with a sigh of contentment. From his position on the veranda he could watch – as he did every evening – the sun slowly dipping towards the horizon in a dazzling blaze of yellow and orange, the colours reflected in the sleepy, shimmering ocean beneath him. For all the thousands of times he had witnessed it, he never grew tired of the setting sun: the colours might vary from day to day but the effect was nearly always spectacular.

He closed his eyes and allowed the dwindling warmth of the sun to play on his face. God he felt tired. Tired and old. But that was hardly surprising, given that only a few weeks ago he had celebrated his ninetieth birthday. Ninety! Who would have thought it? He dozed for a few minutes then opened his eyes and reached for the photo album which Hannah, his favourite granddaughter, had just delivered. The family had put it together for him as a surprise for his recent birthday, but Hannah had just added some shots of the day itself.

He opened the cover. There were the photos of his mum and dad, with Richard as a newborn and later as a rather solemn little boy. Where had they got those from, he wondered. He supposed Camille must have stored them away when they cleared the house in England after his parents had died. He hadn't seen the photos in many years. There were others, too, of Richard in his school uniform, smiling bravely while secretly dreading the return to school and the inevitable bullying, and on his 18th birthday, brandishing a rather large key to the door. None of Richard with any friends, though.

Then there was the obligatory university graduation photo, and one in his police uniform when he had just joined the force. But then there was a big gap until his father's seventy-fifth birthday, when they had all gone out to dinner together. It had never struck him before, but there was no photographic record of his time with the Metropolitan Police, apart from his ID of course. More than twenty years with the Force, and nothing to show for it. He pulled a face: it was not exactly that they had been wasted years, but compared to what had followed … In fact, he had difficulty now recalling much of his life in Croydon. It was another world – pleasant enough at the time but seriously lacking in anything to make it memorable.

He turned the page again. Saint-Marie – or the beginning of his life proper, as he liked to think of it. There was his official photograph, looking serious and unsmiling. He had wanted to ditch it but Camille said she liked to be reminded of how he had been when he first arrived, when he had driven her mad with his starchy 'Englishman abroad' act. Except that it hadn't been an act; his naturally conservative and repressed self had been genuinely disorientated by the strange new world in which he found himself. Not to mention the assault on his latent senses that had been Camille.

Ha! He cackled when he spotted the snap of Harry the lizard, sunning himself in his favourite spot on the veranda. He had been ridiculously fond of Harry who had, he supposed, been his first friend on Saint-Marie, and had got (for Richard) quite emotional when he finally died. Not that he had admitted it – not back then, anyway.

There were several photos of the team relaxing together at La Kaz. Where had _they_ come from? Catherine, probably, he thought. He put the book down for a minute as his memory flew to the emotional and determined Frenchwoman who had been his mother-in-law. It was odd, in a way: there had never really been a great meeting of minds between them – they were far too different for that – but as time passed they had become strangely fond of each other, and when she had finally died, about 20 years ago, he had been almost as devastated as Camille. _Salut, Catherine!_

He smiled at the sight of Fidel, so fresh-faced and eager back then. Richard had been very proud of his protégé and pleased that he had been able to start him on the promotion ladder. There he was again, with Juliet and baby Rosie – the first of the four children and endless grandchildren Fidel had produced. Richard could hardly believe that DCI Best had been happily retired from the Saint-Marie Police Force for quite a while now. He still came to visit his old boss every Friday, though, and the two men (and sometimes Camille) always enjoyed reminiscing about the cases they had solved together all those years ago.

And then there was Dwayne. Ah, Dwayne! The Dwayne who made them all laugh, the Dwayne who was far sharper than he let on, the Dwayne who – despite all appearances – was actually a very astute and dedicated police officer. Richard really missed Dwayne. He was just glad that when the end finally came Dwayne was surrounded by pretty girls and enjoying himself at one of his innumerable parties. The heart attack that felled him had been sudden and unexpected but he had not suffered.

Richard looked again at the pictures taken at La Kaz. There he sat in his usual suit drinking tea in the heat of the day while the others were swigging beer; trying hard to be part of the group but still not quite fitting in. How much he owed that team! Without them he would never have learned the value of human relationships, of friendship and trust. It had taken him a while, naturally, but in the end they had become his family. In Camille's case, of course, it was literally true.

Camille … Of course she was in all the photographs at La Kaz, laughing, pouting or just enjoying life. And looking drop dead gorgeous to boot, whatever she was wearing. Where would he have been without Camille? It was she, more than anyone, who had made Saint-Marie such a special experience. They had started with mutual dislike, and who would have thought that from such inauspicious beginnings their relationship would have blossomed in the way that it did?

Richard leaned back again and closed his eyes, willing himself back to that Valentine's Day more than 45 years ago. He had been enjoying his usual cup of tea at La Kaz when Catherine had slid into the chair next to him and grasped his arm, an anxious expression on her face. _A special favour_ she had pleaded. The blind date she had arranged for Camille to the big Valentine's Dinner at the island's top hotel had just called to say he had missed the last ferry from Guadeloupe and so couldn't make it. Would he, Richard, _please_ take Camille instead? She was _so_ looking forward to it and had even bought a new dress! He had tried to wriggle out of it, but Catherine had begged, so in the end he had agreed.

He could still remember the unaccountable butterflies in his stomach as he waited for Camille and the sharp intake of breath when he first caught sight of her. He couldn't believe how beautiful she looked. He wondered why his heart had started to thump uncomfortably. He had never really analysed the undoubted effect she had on him and had certainly never admitted, even to himself, that he might have feelings for her. Any such thoughts were firmly repressed. He just knew that she was someone special.

He could recall very little of the dinner itself, except for the roving photographer who was snapping all the happy couples. As he approached their table Richard looked alarmed but Camille happily squeezed up to him to pose and put her arm round his waist. And here was the very photograph as proof: Camille laughing and relaxed, Richard frozen like a rabbit in the headlights. He chuckled quietly to himself as he recalled what had happened next.

After dinner they had gone for a walk along the beach, Camille's hand tucked into his arm. Suddenly she had stumbled and twisted her ankle. As she fell onto the sand she dragged him with her and he had ended up lying partly on top of her in a mad tangle of limbs. It had all happened rather quickly after that; when Camille kissed him his first automatic instinct had been to push her away, but that had lasted no longer than a split second and he was soon kissing her back, albeit rather inexpertly. _It had been_ he explained _rather a long time._ As Camille's mantra was _practice makes perfect_ they had a most enjoyable time doing just that, and then one thing led to another and the next he knew he was being ruthlessly undressed on the bed in the shack.

It wasn't until the next morning that she had confessed that her fall in the sand had been deliberate, and it was several years before Catherine finally admitted that there had been no blind date – she had engineered the whole thing, despairing that Richard would ever make the first move. She had been right, of course: in all probability he would never have summoned the courage to ask Camille out, so he owed the wily Frenchwoman a very great deal indeed. _Salut, Catherine!_

He turned the page again. Their wedding. He could recall the day as if it were yesterday. The nerves, the worry that she might change her mind, the wonder of watching her walk up the aisle on the arm of the Commissioner, the relief at not stumbling in his vows, the sheer embarrassment of having to kiss the bride in front of the whole congregation, the mess he made of their first dance despite all the rehearsals, the exhilaration of finally escaping the reception as they left for their honeymoon and the utter bliss of just being alone with Camille.

His parents had come over for the occasion. Yes, here they were – dad standing ramrod stiff and mum looking totally out of place in a two-piece and hat that would have been more suitable for Royal Ascot than the Caribbean. For once he himself was not wearing a suit - Camille had threatened to jilt him at the altar if he did. Actually he had never really worn the suit again; it was still hanging up in the back of the wardrobe after all these years. He had wanted to burn it on the beach but a sentimental Camille had insisted on keeping it, so he had told her with typical gallows humour that she could bury him in it. Though he doubted he would fit into it these days.

A couple of honeymoon photos – probably the first ever taken of a properly smiling Richard. Camille had wanted to spend the time in England, getting to know the places that had been important in his life, and had absolutely insisted on the weekend in Clacton that he had so rashly promised her on the night of the almost-hurricane. There she was, sitting on the steps of the caravan, pretending it was a 5-star hotel. They hadn't needed the wind to make the caravan rock that night.

Another page and there she was again with their first child, a son who had been a truly beautiful baby. And then their daughter. _Those had been such happy times, when the children were young,_ he mused. He remembered well the total panic that had engulfed him when he realised he was to be a father. He had been so determined to foster a good relationship with his children and so frightened that he wouldn't succeed that Camille had become quite disturbed and had had to speak very sternly to him about it. In the event, he need not have worried: he found parenthood to be a totally natural state. He would have done anything for his children, and in return they loved him to bits.

Richard paused to wipe an unaccustomed tear from his deeply furrowed cheek. A happy family life had been the very last thing he had ever expected to have and he couldn't imagine why he had been so blessed. He turned another page or two: more snaps of the children growing up – with him and Camille, with their triumphant grandmother Catherine, with Fidel's children and with his own parents, on the intermittent trips back to England they had made.

His parents had never returned to Saint-Marie after the wedding. They found it hard to understand the attraction the island held for their once staid and sober son, and if he was totally honest he would have to admit that they had never really taken to Camille either. Oh they were nice enough to her, but he knew that deep down they were disappointed that he had chosen someone so 'foreign' when there were so many nice English girls he could have picked. He had religiously taken his growing family back to England every couple of years until the children left home, and then the visits had become gradually more infrequent until mum's dementia had confined her to a nursing home and dad had died one night in his sleep, ironically just before Richard was appointed as Commissioner of Police on the island.

He thought hard: why, it must be well over 10 years since he had last been in England. He hadn't missed it for a long time now – it was no longer his home, no longer the country he had known and loved. He knew no-one there now and had no regrets.

Weariness engulfed him again, and he closed his eyes for a few minutes. Soon he heard the door bang and knew that Camille was back from the shops. He called out to her and she came to drop a kiss on the top of his head. It was hard to believe that she was past eighty now herself; in his eyes she was still the beautiful woman who had taught him about love, even if her hair was now grey and she now walked with a stick.

"Come and look at the sunset, Camille, it's the best one we've had in months. Look, I've taken a photo on my mobile." He held his phone out to her.

"Yes, it's really lovely. Gorgeous colours. I'll just go and put the kettle on and make us a nice cup of tea and then I'll be back and we can watch it together."

She disappeared back into the house and Richard picked up the album again. Where had he got to? Ah yes, the family holidays. What amazing times they had had. He smiled at the carefree feel of these photos – the picnics, the games on the beach, the camping activities. And everyone laughing and enjoying themselves. He was glad they had included Camille's favourite snap of the two children burying their father in the sand and planting the union jack on the mound. He well remembered that it had taken him days to get rid of the last grain of sand from his clothes, but the children had squealed with delight and he hadn't had the heart to complain. His own favourite was the one where he was lying in the grass roaring with laughter as the children tickled him. Happy times, indeed.

There were other photos of the children in their school uniform, then at university, then with girlfriends and boyfriends. That had been a hard time for Richard: letting go, allowing them to make their way in the world and make their own choices. Camille had to remind him frequently not to be over-protective and to allow the children to make their own mistakes. There had been a few ups and downs along the way, but he was proud of the way they had turned out – and remembered to tell them so. Neither had followed him into the police – one was a research scientist, the other a teacher – but he had been utterly determined never to betray the slightest feeling of disappointment, and he hoped he had succeeded.

Then had come the grandchildren – five in all. They were all there, in varying stages of infancy and childhood. And there was Catherine again, a very old lady by now, holding the oldest of them. He was so glad that she had lived to see her first great-grandchild. That was when he had decided to retire. Camille had only worked part-time since having the children, and gave up altogether when Richard became Commissioner. The five years he had spent in that role had been satisfying and surprisingly interesting, and he had even managed the schmoozing without too many social disasters. He studied his inauguration photo with a wry smile – it had felt strange to be back in uniform after so long but in the end he had rather enjoyed the sense of supreme authority which it conferred.

But he had had to work throughout his own children's childhood and was determined not to do the same again; he wanted to be fully involved with his grandchildren. It had given him great pleasure to watch them growing up and he and Camille had spent many happy hours taking care of them. They called him Gramps – or Grumps when they were trying to provoke him into one of his legendary rants, which they adored. Not that he did much ranting now – it was far too exhausting. In fact, he didn't do much of anything these days. He rarely left the house and was more than content just to observe the world passing him by from his chair on the veranda.

The rattle of teacups reached him from the kitchen as he arrived at the final pages of the album. Their fortieth wedding anniversary. Already by then the doctors had warned him that his heart was failing and it was fairly obvious they wouldn't make it to their Golden Wedding. So they had celebrated in some style ten years early, and taken the whole family to a villa in St Lucia for the week. It was only five years ago, but the difference in the grandchildren was remarkable: in the photos they were still teenagers but now they were mostly adults. In fact the oldest was already a father himself and Hannah – to Richard's not very secret delight – was about to join the Met, though he knew he would miss her when she moved to London.

He heard the trolley clanking along the corridor as Camille re-appeared with the tea. She propped her stick against the table, drew up another chair and sat down next to him with a smile.

"Have you looked at Hannah's photos of your birthday yet, Richard?"

"I've just got to them. Yes, here we are. Oh look, there's us with our first great-grandchild. And that's a nice one of the whole family together, isn't it? Our very own rainbow nation!"

She poked him in the chest. "We did well, didn't we?"

He chortled. "Not bad for a very late starter, eh? Of course, having the most beautiful woman in the Caribbean helped a bit."

She sighed. "But it was all such a _long_ time ago. No-one would think we had it in us, to look at us now."

"All passion spent" he quoted. She looked at him enquiringly. "It's a book" he offered, by way of explanation.

"It would be, of course. But we had our moments, didn't we?"

"I seem to recall that we had quite a lot of moments. In fact, sometimes when I look at you I wonder whether we couldn't … you know … one last time? But I don't think my heart would stand it now …"

She patted his hand. "Never mind, we have plenty of memories. But I'm glad you liked the album."

"Yes, it has really made me think. I've been so lucky and had such a good life. I know I don't have much time left now. But it's fine – we all have to go at some point and the only sadness is in leaving you."

She made a small distressed sound and he covered her hand with his. "I'll miss you" she whispered.

"Yes, I know you will, but you'll be all right, Camille. You have the family and your friends – they will look after you. And there will be more great-grandchildren to watch over. You mustn't be too sad or grieve too much. We've had some wonderful times together and I have absolutely no regrets."

"None at all?"

"No, none. Well – only that I didn't meet you ten years earlier."

She laughed. "But who knows, you might not have been ready for me ten years earlier. I was quite a handful in those days!"

He snorted. "Who knows, indeed. But it would have been fun finding out."

They sat together for a while sipping their tea in companionable silence; after so many years there was no need for words. The sun sank gradually lower and lower until only the tip remained. The sky flooded crimson.

"Shall I get you another cup of tea?"

"Mmm, that would be nice" Richard murmured and sank back in his chair.

Returning to the veranda a few minutes later, she knew at once. No need to look at the head lolling to one side, or the album which had slipped to the ground. Her hand shaking a little, she placed the cup on the table next to him, picked up the book and sat down. The album was open at the very last page, which was blank. Just enough space for the shot he had taken of that final sunset.

A tear trickled down her cheek as she held his hand for the very last time and sat and watched as the last rays of the sun left the sky and the tea grew cold.


End file.
